


Equilibrium

by pandapresident



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Light heresy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21323977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandapresident/pseuds/pandapresident
Summary: A series of one-shots for Casphardt Week 2019.One, Childhood and Firsts: Caspar keeps letting his father down. He doesn't want to do it again.Two, Healing: Healers can't heal themselves.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Kudos: 54





	1. Neither Use nor Ornament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Childhood & Firsts

Being quiet was not one of Caspar’s strengths. He had to stay quiet, though, or his father would rescind the rare invitation to take him out for some sparring practice. Such invitations came by one in a moon, if that, and Caspar so dearly wanted to burn off some energy and maybe even earn a little bit of praise from his father.

That left him sitting in a carriage, alone, waiting for his father. He really wanted to talk to the driver, find out what it was like to drive a carriage, if he’d ever had to race a pegasus, and if he’d ever met a bandit on the roads. He was on strict orders not to bother anyone, though, so he’d taken precautions not to blurt anything out without thinking. The precaution was also a game: how much of his fist could he fit in his mouth?

It transpired that, with some effort, he could just about manage to fit his whole fist in his mouth. He was incredibly proud of this feat and wished he had someone to show it to.

He could hear his father’s booming voice ring out outside the carriage. There was some kind of commotion, but Caspar had been on his best behaviour all morning so he felt none of the usual apprehension that came with such a commotion. Count Bergliez wrenched the carriage door open, hauled himself inside without acknowledging his son (which Caspar was grateful for, since he still had his fist lodged in his mouth) and muttered darkly under his breath as his aide hastily clambered inside after him. He failed to spot his son, balled up in a corner and extracting his hand from his mouth.

“Drive!” Count Bergliez bellowed. Caspar heard the crack of the whip and the carriage lurched into action.

“Back to the expenditure,” his father’s aide said, jabbing at a book, “I think we can justify it-“

“Justify? Justify!” Caspar’s father said. “I’m not justifying one coin to that damn von Hevring. The expenses are what they are and he will have to accommodate his budget to suit mine. He’s more than capable of working this out.”

Caspar had heard the name von Hevring before, usually accompanied by some sort of curse that Caspar would have had his mouth scrubbed with soap if he’d dared to repeat it. He wondered how this was going to fit into his training. Maybe he’d be using von Hevring as a target?

Then, the experiences of his short six years caught up to him, and he realised there was going to be no training today. He probably wasn’t even supposed to be in the carriage now. For once, he had been too quiet.

Panicked, Caspar looked for an escape. Maybe if he climbed out of the window while his father was ranting about that “accursed, lily-handed minister”, he could get back home before anyone noticed him? He reached for the latch, and that was when his father’s military training kicked in. He might not be the most observant at home, but any small movement would always catch his eye.

“Caspar!” he roared. “What are you doing here?”

Meekly, Caspar raised his wooden training axe by way of explanation.

“We were ‘sposed to go out today,” he mumbled. “I was being quiet like you said.”

“The one time it would be useful for you to raise a ruckus,” his father muttered, shaking his head. “Never mind. Someone will have brought their sproglets along and you can run around with them. Don’t get into any fights.”

Dietlieg cleared his throat, avoiding the count’s eyes. “I believe the only people in attendance today are you and the Minister of Domestic Affairs.”

“I see,” Caspar’s father said. His thick moustache twitched; Caspar realised that he was smiling. He clapped his son on the shoulder, nearly bowling him off his seat. “Well, if you do get into a fight, make sure you win.”

Elated, Caspar shivered with pride. Finally, a chance to prove himself worthy to his father.

\---

It wasn’t often that Caspar went to the place his father sneeringly referred to as “the office”, but he’d run around it enough to find his way without assistance. That was just as well, because after making a jibe about how Count von Hevring’s son was “neither use nor ornament,” his father and his aide had vanished.

Caspar went to find this son of von Hevring. He must be real bad, if his dad wouldn’t mind him scuffing him up. Usually, getting into fights with other nobles (even if they deserved it) won him a clip around the ear and a lecture about choosing his battles.

He tore through the building, throwing open doors and dashing hither and thither, encountering only startled staff members, whose eyes fell upon his shock of blue hair and swallowed their complaints. It was only when he ventured into the library, a last resort, that he found what he was looking for.

Curled up on the floor, cradling a thick tome, was the prettiest person Caspar had ever laid eyes on. Recently, he’d been dragged on a pilgrimage to a chapel devoted to Saint Cethlenn. He’d heard about how kind, how wonderful, how beautiful she was – but, when faced with a painting of her in the chapel, he’d cocked his head and said he didn’t see what the fuss was about. (He’d gotten smacked pretty hard for that one.)

But if Cethlenn looked one tenth as pretty as the kid before him, Caspar thought he got it. His flowing locks of green hair, tumbling over his shoulders and onto the book, made his hands itch to touch them. His features were delicate, like the china his mother never seemed to use. As Caspar approached, one eye creaked open, took Caspar in, and fluttered shut again.

“I’m not interested,” the boy said, rolling over so Caspar couldn’t see his face.

“In what?”

“In whatever it is you’re going to tell me to do.”

“Oh,” Caspar said. “Uh, are you Count von Hevring’s son?”

“That depends,” the boy, who might or might not be Count von Hevring’s son, replied. “Do I have to do anything if I am?”

“Uh,” Caspar said, rubbing the back of his head. “If you are, then my dad wants me to fight you and win.”

“Then it seems that it would be a poor day to be him. I’ll pass.”

Caspar was torn. On the one hand, his opportunity to win his father’s approval was slipping from his grasp. On the other, it didn’t seem right to get into a fight with someone who didn’t seem to be bothering anyone else.

Still, he felt he should at least figure out who he was talking to. What was it that his father had said about the count’s son?

“Oh!” Caspar shouted, clapping his hands together. The other boy groaned. “You can’t be him.”

“And why is that?”

“’Cause my dad said that the kid was ‘neither use nor ornament’,” Caspar recited, pleased with himself.

The other boy glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. It was pretty effective at asking a question without words and Caspar was impressed. He wondered if he could do that; raise just one of his eyebrows. He was very much all or nothing, but maybe, with practice in front of a mirror...

“And?” the boy prompted, as Caspar’s mind drifted off.

“Right!” Caspar said, remembering what he was saying. Suddenly, with both of those piercing, dark blue eyes locked on him, he felt embarrassed. “Well, uh,” he said, shuffling his feet. “You’re pretty. So, you can’t be him.”

“Hm,” the boy said. He sat up, leaning against a bookcase for support. “Well, there are a few possi-posbib-possibib- options,” he said. “Firstly, you and your father might disagree on what counts as pretty.”

“Huh,” Caspar said. Based on what happened at the shrine, that might be true. “Which means that you could be the count’s son.”

“Correct,” the boy said, nodding. “Or you could be in agreement, in which case you could rule me out as the son.”

“So I don’t know anything,” Caspar moaned, covering his eyes with his hands. “I really wanted to make Dad proud.”

“Why?”

“Huh?” Caspar peered at him between his fingers.

“Why do you want to make him proud?”

“’Cause he’s my dad.”

“I see,” the boy said, nodding slowly.

“And I never make him proud,” Caspar admitted. “I’m always getting into fights he doesn’t want me to get into and making too much noise and then today I didn’t make enough noise-“

“Exhausting,” the boy said.

“What?”

“Your father’s wishes. He wants you not to fight, except against me. He wants you to not make noise and is displeased when you don’t? How tiresome.”

“When you put it like that…” Caspar mumbled, his feet scuffing at the floor. His eyes lit up. “Hey, you said ‘me’! You are the count’s son.”

“Ah,” the son said, pouting. “Did I?”

“Yeah!”

“Very well,” he said, nodding. “I am Count von Hevring’s son.”

Caspar nodded. “Uh huh. So, what’s your name?”

“Oh,” the boy said. “Usually, that’s all people need to hear. Especially those who have sought me out to fight me.”

“Does that happen often?” Caspar wished more people would pick fights with him. Count von Hevring’s son was living the dream.

“More often than I’d like.”

“Wow,” Caspar breathed. “That’s so cool. And your name is…?”

“My name is Linhardt. And it is not cool; it’s really quite irritating.”

“Linhardt,” Caspar repeated. “Nice to meet you, Linhardt. I’m Count von Bergliez’s son. Uh, the other son,” he clarified, seeing the crease in Linhardt’s brow. He was accustomed to people forgetting that his father had more than just the one son. “Caspar.”

“I see,” Linhardt said. “Well, Caspar, are you going to beat me black and blue?”

“No!” Caspar said. He hadn’t realised, until that moment, that he’d made his decision. “I, uh, don’t go picking fights for no reason. Just people who’ve been bad. You seem okay.” He wagged a finger. “For now!”

“Oh,” Linhardt said. His big eyes were even bigger than before. “What about your father?”

“Well,” Caspar said, his forehead furrowing, “He was wrong about you being, y’know.”

“’Neither use nor ornament,’ I believe you said,” Linhardt quoted. “Personally, I think he was correct.”

“No way!” Caspar said. “Anyway, I figure he might have the wrong information about you. But I’ll keep watching you, just in case!”

“I see,” Linhardt said, nodding. He was smiling, now, and Caspar’s chest swelled. “I will try to stay on your good side.”

“And if people come to fight you and you don’t deserve it? I’ll beat them up for you.”

“Why?”

“I just said,” Caspar replied, “If you don’t deserve it, then they can’t go picking fights with you. And I’ll teach them that it’s wrong to fight people who don’t deserve it. Pow!”

He punched the air. Then he punched it again, for good measure. And for a third time, just because it was fun.

“And what do you want from me in return?” Linhardt asked.

“Huh? Nothing.” Caspar kept punching the air. He hoped Linhardt was impressed.

“You’ll protect me for free?” Linhardt asked, doing that cool one-eyebrow-raised thing.

“That’s what friends are for,” Caspar said, shrugging. It was hard to shrug and punch at the same time, and Caspar lost his rhythm somewhat, but what he lacked in grace, strength and form, he made up for with unbridled enthusiasm.

“We’re friends?”

“Don’t you want to be?” Caspar dropped his hands to his side.

“I don’t know,” Linhardt said. “I don’t think I’ve had a friend before. Do I need to do anything?”

“Not really.”

“All right,” Linhardt said. There was a flash of a smile before he yawned. “In that case, I will use this opportunity to rest while I’ve got you on guard.”

“You can count on me,” Caspar said.


	2. Blame the Goddess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day two: Healing

“Heal yourself first,” Caspar had said. It was their first real battle. Caspar had a cut that spanned the length of his forearm, while Linhardt had been grazed by an arrow. It was the green tinge to his friend’s pale face that really troubled him, though, and the hunted look in his eyes.

Linhardt had been forced to take a life and, even though the only gore had been a trickle of blood from the bandit’s lips, Caspar had never seen his friend look so revolted. Not with the corpse, but with his own hands, which he had stared at with undisguised horror.

These hands were now on Caspar’s arm, peeling back fabric and barely trembling at all.

“Can’t,” Linhardt said, closing his eyes as he held his hands over Caspar’s wound. Linhardt had healed him before. For the bloodier injuries, he’d close his eyes and the magic would feel fuzzier, less centralised. This was the fuzziest yet; Caspar felt like his whole arm tingle. “You can’t use Faith magic on yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Caspar cried. This alerted a bandit to the fact that he and Linhardt had taken cover behind some fallen rocks, but Caspar barely bothered to spare them a glance as he swiped them away with his axe. The injustice Linhardt had just revealed was far more concerning. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Linhardt said, turning away from where the bandit had fallen. “Take it up with the Goddess.”

That battle had been long ago, Caspar had never been released from that initial reaction. It rankled him that mages, who were so delicate already, whose robes wouldn’t stop a determined mosquito, let alone an arrow, couldn’t use their powers to maintain their own health. He’d wanted to take his complaint to the highest level, but Linhardt, in a rare display of bossiness, had absolutely forbidden it.

“You cannot actually complain to the Archbishop, Caspar,” he’d said, looking nearly as pale as he had that first time he’d drawn blood in battle. “It will be heresy. You know what the Church does to heretics.”

“Uhhh,” Caspar said.

“Execution,” Linhardt said, firmly. “Without trial.”

Caspar didn’t think the Church was quite that bad (it wasn’t like he was going to rally an army for his pet cause) but Linhardt had sworn him, on his favourite axe, to never bother the Archbishop with anything other than a life or death situation. Caspar might have ignored it and done it anyway, if it hadn’t been the shocking amount of effort Linhardt exerted in arranging the whole thing. Caspar could ignore a direct order from the Professor, but he wouldn’t ignore this plea from Linhardt.

He still had a problem to solve, however, which led to him popping a vaguely worded concern into the box at the chapel: _My friend can’t help himself and I’m worried. What should I do?_ The Professor, as ever, tried to be helpful:

_You should help him._

Perfect, Caspar thought, not knowing how it had never occurred to him before. All he needed to do was learn some Faith magic.

Frustratingly, no-one seemed inclined to help him on this endeavour. The Professor refused outright to change that to one of his study topics, and even ignored his subtle, then not so subtle, hints when they were having their one-on-one tutoring. Linhardt nearly choked on his tea when Caspar asked him.

“Excuse me?” he asked. He looked peeved. “Am I not doing a sufficient job? Did your last injury not heal correctly?”

“You’re doing great,” Caspar said. He even had the sense not to add, ‘When you’re not taking a nap while the rest of us are fighting.’ “But you can’t do everything!”

“And I would hate to try,” Linhardt agreed, “But thankfully, we have others who can heal in a pinch. And other people who can study that magic if they choose. You, however, should keep doing what you do best: running at things and hitting them.”

Caspar’s other leads were similarly unhelpful. And that was how Caspar wound up sneaking a book of Faith magic from the library and studying it every night (except the times he forgot).

After about a month of his intermittent study, Caspar had learned the theory of a basic healing spell, but nothing ever happened when he tried to make it work. Exasperated, he went to see the Professor, who stared at him with those owlish eyes and asked about his routine, his other activities, his certifications. Caspar reeled off a long list of hitting things, hitting things some more, and being a certified hitter of things.

“Faith magic is incompatible with that,” the Professor said. “Except in very rare levels of mastery.”

“What?” Caspar said. Now he had another complaint to make to the Goddess. “Why?”

“Because you’re fixated on a different sphere of effect,” the Professor said. They picked up some chalk and started sketching on the blackboard. “See, your mind and body are aligned with the use of brute force. Magical abilities require a different focus. You can’t tap into them while you’re dedicating your efforts elsewhere.”

Caspar groaned. So much for all that study.

\---

What Caspar had dreamed of doing, when he’d first picked up the book of magic, was pretty simple. They would be in a fight. Caspar, naturally, would be saving the day single-handedly, and everything would be going great – until Linhardt tripped and sprained his ankle.

“Alas and woe,” Linhardt would say, looking up at Caspar from where he had fallen on the ground. “I will have to fall back and heal you from a distance, thus missing out on all of your excellent, and not at all risky, fighting manoeuvres.”

“Don’t sweat it, Lin,” Caspar would say, crouching down. “I got this.”

And then he’d heal Linhardt, who would gasp and admire his amazing versatility (Caspar didn’t have this scripted; any compliments the Linhardt in his head gave him never seemed to come out right), and Caspar would then save the day some more. It was brilliant and totally realistic.

Except for the part where the stupid Goddess said no, he couldn’t hit things with an axe or his fists and heal people.

And so, Caspar’s study lay mostly forgotten, dredged up only when Linhardt was injured in battle and there was no one in the immediate vicinity to help him. Each time, Caspar gritted his teeth, punching anything that came at them extra hard, until someone came and gave Linhardt the help that Caspar couldn’t.


End file.
